Animal
by CiderApples
Summary: Post-Under My Skin. AU future. When the drugs are gone, he's an animal.


_A/N: References to Under My Skin. AU future. Spoilers!_

_Also, I'm not sure if this is a one-shot or a multi-chapter. I'm going to mark it complete, but might return._

_Disclaimer: I have never owned a popular character and probably never will. That's why I set fires._

* * *

"Are you okay?"

"No."

* * *

Take the drugs away and he became an animal.

It was okay. She liked animals. She had a baby, after all. But this was...different.

He was sitting on the floor of _her_ bathroom, not his. His disheveled appearance clashed violently with her pale, clean tile floor and muted 'Peach Cobbler' walls. Wrinkled clothes, wrinkled face, and her wrinkled nose at the smell of him. As much as she cared, the consequence of a showerless withdrawl was unavoidable. She imagined his hands would leave grimy streaks across the white porcelain toilet when he finally let go, but he hadn't let go yet. It had only just been a day and a half.

She'd warned him it wouldn't be like he dreamed it. Truthfully, he knew that, too. He had made it so easy, mere hours of pain and precious few rolling, full-body cramps. Completely unrealistic. He hadn't included the bag of drugs Cuddy had brought home with them, nor the half-bottle of Immodium she'd already forced down his throat.

"Just in case," she said when he'd seen it, despite her attempts to cover it with blankets in the trunk of her car. "If I need even half of the drugs in that bag, I'm admitting you."

His imagination hadn't done justice to the shaking, the cramping, and what seemed to be endless iterations of vomit. Why was she still here? Why had she agreed to this? Why had he ever said a mean thing to her? _Never again_, he thought to himself as a bolt of nausea bent him over the wrecked bowl of her toilet. His fingernails made tiny claw-scrabbling sounds on the tile at its base, and Cuddy thought, again, _animal_.

She sat far from him, on the ledge of the bathtub, taking a spatial respite from being on his level--on the same level as those horrible retching sounds, the smell of bile and sweat, and his attempts to mumble words to her when he wasn't passing out. She had empathized for the first twenty hours, and then it had become fuzzy and difficult. Now she was just staying awake. _Because it's helping. __I'm helping_, she thought, and which she really wanted to believe.

In the first day, when he was irritable, semi-coherent, and prone to fits of rage she tallied tolerance points in her head and imagined House's undying loyalty and thanks. He would return to the hospital, he would behave, he would support her and smile and take a renewed interest in life. Even as she thought these things, she knew they were unrealistic. She knew these fantasies were justifications: carrots she was dangling in front of herself to make her stay here with him. Otherwise, who would? _Someone_ had to.

The fantasies had worn thin. He was pitiable, but not endearing. The only allusion to his gratitude had been a wobbly raised head and a garbled, "Free sex for you, Cuddy. For life." That had been...after the second nap, before the next eight.

She knew she couldn't count on gratitude, not from him. She wasn't sure she could even count on him to not relapse immediately, but she couldn't think about that. Couldn't, or she would call the ambulance and send him off for someone else to deal with. She liked to think that maybe if an ambulance arrived, and he were strapped down and loaded, and he was being rolled into that metal cage, that he would look at her with suprise, dismay or regret. Maybe he would reflect on himself, think, "_What have I done? Please, take me back. I'll be good. I'll be better._"

If he _could_ think those things, Cuddy could muster up her empathy and _perhaps_ find the strength to ride with him in the back of the ambulance. _Possibly_ even hold his hand en route. Because then he would be like a child: confused rather than ignorant, misguided rather than malicious. And Cuddy loved children, even with the vomit and the diapers and the crying all night long.

_But House isn't a child, _she thought firmly. _Right now, he's barely human, and maybe he hasn't been entirely human for a long time before this. _Her anger grew and she bit her lip to keep from saying something she would consider to be beneath her.

"As if you would even comprehend," she said despite herself. Her lips curled in disgust as he tried, and failed, to raise his head and open his eyes. He succeeded only in mashing his ear into the hard toilet seat and drooling . _He won't even remember this,_ she thought. She felt disheartened, deflated, abused. For a moment, her legs tensed as she hung on the decision to call for that ambulance. Neither here nor there, she remained half-standing, waiting for a missing piece of information to make up her mind. _It's not betrayal if I wouldn't stay with him even if he were sober._

Suddenly, his eyes opened. Not quite clear, not quite focused, he managed nevertheless to locate her shape in the dim bathroom. She met his wavering gaze with a face of sad judgment, and for a moment she thought she saw some human emotion floating around in his empty head. Something panicked, or afraid, or—god forbid—remorseful. Cuddy's rigid frown softened momentarily. She let her legs fall into a soft crouch, and crept fractionally closer to him. _I want you to be worth it, _she thought. _Show me that something's in there._

"House?" she said softly. For a second, he found focus.

"Cud-" he began, and then he twisted to vomit again. Cuddy's eyes slid to the ground and her frown reset. With a sharp and angry sigh she rose to her feet and headed for the phone. _Enough,_she thought. The darkness of her apartment outside the bathroom felt oppressive. _All for him,_she thought, flicking on the bright lights. _Not anymore._ The flood of illumination made her feel marginally better. Just because he had decided to trash his life and career in one fell swoop did _not_ mean she had to sit here in nightmarish gloom, waiting for him to recover so he could once again abuse her trust. No, indeed. She could turn on the lights in her own house. She could run her hospital without condoning his interference. That position was _hers. _Her life was _hers. _

She had the receiver in her hand when she heard a small scuffling behind her. _Don't turn around, _she thought. _It doesn't matter what you'd see. Call the ambulance. Call anyone. He is not your problem._ But she couldn't _not_ look. She was a doctor. She was smart. She was nothing, if not curious. And so she turned around and saw House, rather, House's right forearm and left hand emerging from her bathroom door, fingers shakily clutching for purchase on the door jamb. His palm slid on her wood floor as he attempted to pull himself toward her.

Cuddy squared her shoulders and punched the 9, then the 1, and then his voice, hoarse and pleading, reached her.

"What are you doing?" The words were slurred and faint, but he made just enough effort to annunciate and she could understand him. She didn't want to answer. Suddenly she felt like he was accusing her, like she'd disappointed him. _Well that's backward, Greg,_she thought angrily, but she slammed the phone back into the cradle and was both chagrined and pleased to see his hands clench in response to the sudden sound. Yet, he continued, reaching out to drag his palm squeakily across the floor and bring his face to the threshold. He allowed himself to rest there, his eyes scrunched up to block out the light. She could see the tremors in his hands, and in the shaking of his head she saw the small spasms of his muscles.

"Cuh..." he began, then stopped for several deep breaths, tears running over his face. Cuddy's shoulders fell. _Fuck._ She reluctantly reached out and let her finger hesitate on the light switch. _My life,_ she thought bitterly as she flicked the light off. House sighed roughly in response and let his face relax. His eyes opened, looking for her. "Cuddy."

She swallowed hard. _My life, my life, my life. _She couldn't quell the upset feeling that was tightening her throat and chest.

"I'm a good person, Greg," she said. Her voice was wobbly and forceful and sounded unnecessarily loud in the quiet room. He answered with a slight nod, rubbing his forehead over the marble jamb. She stood uneasily in front of him. "I'm a good person, I have been good _to you_, and you have no right to expect this from me. I don't _owe_ you this," she said.

"I know," he sighed. And he did.


End file.
